Black Knight
by Klepsie
Summary: Sam Tyler, Gene Hunt and the boys get wind of an armed robbery at an unusual venue... a chess tournament. Can this be real, or is Sam's subconscious sending coded messages from the future?
1. Chapter 1

Say the word "Manchester" to anyone in England and one of two things will come to their mind.

The first is football.

The second is rain.

There may be people so dead to the glorious game of soccer that they cannot care two new pence for the toothy grin of Nobby Styles, the dribbling skills of Mike Summerbee, the penalty taking ferocity of Francis Lee, the all-around genius of George Best.

But even those people will know that if you go to Manchester, you must expect it to rain on you. The rain clouds come sailing in from the Pennines, along the M62 motorway, over the moors where Ian Brady and Myra Hindley buried their victims, and come to rest, nestled cheerfully over Manchester, ready to drop a grey curtain of drizzle over the city day in, day out, every season of the year.

Most of the time, anyway.

"Bloody hell," Chris Skelton commented as he pulled the Venetian blind apart and peeked out of the window through the gap. "It's still a belter of a day out there. Cor… there's a bird down in the street wearing hot pants."

Ray Carling joined him at the window to ogle the object of Skelton's desire. The sun came spilling into the gloomy room as though it couldn't wait to grab such a rare chance to illuminate it. Carling squinted as its rays got in his eyes.

"Down there! Corrrr!"

"Sister Anne! Sister Anne! Do you see anyone coming?"

Skelton and Carling both span around at the familiar voice, and almost bumped into each other as they did so. Gene Hunt stood behind them, his tie askew and his cigarette in one hand pointing at them like an offensive weapon.

"Nice to see that crime in this city's dropped to the level that my officers can spend their time gawping out of the window," remarked Hunt with feigned delight. "Carling! You typed up those reports on the Eccles stabbing yet?"

"No, guv –"

Carling broke off and slunk back to his desk, where he lit a cigarette of his own and selected three forms and two sheets of carbon paper. Interlacing them, he rolled them into the typewriter and began to bash at the keyboard, occasionally growling as he hit a wrong key and had to backspace.

"And you, Skelton! I know it would be wonderful if we had officers on every tall building all day, watching the streets below for signs of crime, but strangely enough, we have better uses for CID officers, even twonks like you. Get your notebook out and get your arse along with me. Uniform have hauled in Stevie Deacon and he was tooled up."

Skelton blinked. "Stevie Deacon tooled up?"

"Yes," snapped Hunt. "Guns are not Stevie Deacon's style. Not normally. So we're going to go and find out just why he was waving one around on Daybury Street like Charles Bronson. Chop chop!"

Skelton let the window blind snap shut and the sun's rays vanished, returning the CID room to its usual state of gloom, cigarette smoke and dinginess.

"Coming, guv." He fished his notebook and pen out of his inside pocket. Hunt was already halfway to the door, with the confident stride of a man who only has to give his underlings a command once to know it will be obeyed.


	2. Chapter 2

It worried Sam Tyler to admit that sometimes he didn't mind 1973 too much. Today was one of those days. He'd slept well, with none of the dreams that came from his own future so often to trouble him and leave him a wreck in the morning. He'd had an appetite at breakfast, and instead of his normal bowl of Weetabix he'd left his rooms early and headed to a nearby transport café for a bacon sandwich with brown sauce and a cup of tea so perfect he tipped the waitress ten whole pence. The waitress had in return given him a beaming smile that might have tempted him to ask her for her name, if he hadn't recalled that another reason for his feeling so good was that Annie Cartwright was back from her annual holiday in Scarborough today and he'd be seeing her again. The sun was shining as he drove into the car park. It was all so perfect. How could such a perfect day be merely a figment of his imagination?

He whistled a tune to himself as he crossed the car park towards the front entrance of the police station, then stopped as he realised that the tune was "Common People" by Pulp. Somehow it didn't seem appropriate to whistle something that wouldn't be written for twenty years. Not today.

He held the door open for a tall man with a hawk-like profile in an expensive suit as the two of them arrived at the entrance together, and was rewarded with a muttered word of thanks.

Phyllis was on duty at the front desk and the tall man headed for her in a purposeful way.

"Martin Morgan, Killingworth Inch Shackle," said the man to Phyllis in a confident tone that, no doubt by design, was loud enough for everyone in the waiting room to hear. "I believe you have a client of mine? A Mr Deacon?"

Sam had been about to bypass Phyllis with a polite smile and head for his desk, but he paused to eye up Morgan.

"Yes, we've got Stevie Deacon," countered Phyllis disdainfully. She was not one to be impressed by some flashy solicitor strutting around her police station. "Do you know where to go? Actually, DI Tyler here will take you, I'm sure." She pulled a clipboard out from beneath her desk and presented it to Morgan.

"What's this?" asked Morgan with exaggerated confusion.

"Sign-in sheet," said Phyllis with a smile of satisfaction. "We're cracking down on protocol here. Orders from on high. Nobody gets past this desk without signing in and out. Print your full name, please. And your firm's. And the time."

Morgan tutted in exasperation, ignored the cheap biro Phyllis offered him, pulled a fountain pen from his top pocket, and filled in the form. "All this paperwork is not exactly helping the wheels of justice turn, now is it?" (Wait till 2006, Sam thought to himself.) "Now may I perhaps see my client?"

"This way, please, sir," Sam Tyler said, trying to make himself sound polite but not deferential. Criminal defence solicitors like Morgan were one thing that hadn't changed much between 2006 and 1973; in both eras they liked to lord it over coppers, and in both eras they looked like they had more money than was good for them. At least in 1973 there weren't so many of them.

"I don't believe we've met?" Morgan said to him as they headed for the cells. "I thought I knew most of CID here."

"Transfer," said Sam curtly.

"Ah. Well, perhaps you can tell me what you're doing with my client?"

"Afraid not." Sam had to stifle the urge to add 'sir' to that reply. "I only just got here for my shift. I don't know anything about Mr… Deacon?… or the reason for his arrest."

"Too bad," said Morgan forgivingly. "I'm sure Gene Hunt will be only too glad to tell me exactly what he imagines Mr Deacon's transgressions to be, though."


	3. Chapter 3

"I found it, didn't I?"

"You found it." Gene Hunt echoed Deacon's words with stark disbelief redolent in his voice.

"Yeah! I found it! It were sitting in the gutter down outside the coal yard. So I picked it up. I thought it was a kid's toy, dinn'I? Thought I could give it to me little nephew for his birthday next week." Deacon looked up at Hunt with a hopeful expression on his face which faded as Hunt scowled back down at him with a face that would have done credit to a demon in a pantomime.

"This is not bloody New York City, Deacon! This is Manchester! You don't just find guns lying in the bloody gutter! Christ Almighty!"

"Oh, what?" exclaimed Deacon. Then he jerked his head backwards as Hunt clenched one fist and brought it to within a few inches of Deacon's nose.

Hunt snorted. "That's the best story I've heard for ages. You should send it in to Jackanory. Maybe Bernard Cribbins will read it out!"

Chris Skelton chuckled at Hunt's sally into sarcasm.

"Now, are you going to tell me where you really got it, or do I have to introduce your face to the wall a few times?" roared Hunt.

For two seconds there was a pregnant silence. Terror shone in Deacon's eyes, and he opened his mouth. "I –"

And he was interrupted as the door opened to admit Sam Tyler and Martin Morgan of Killingworth Inch Shackle, Solicitors.

Hunt span around and gave the newcomers a scowl almost as dangerous as the one he'd just favoured Deacon with.

"His solicitor's here, guv," said Sam.

Morgan raised one eyebrow just the right distance to display surprised amusement. "'Solicitor'? That's a word I don't hear very often inside here."

Hunt span around and glared at Deacon again. "Chrissakes! What do you want a brief for?"

"That's what police officers generally call me," continued Morgan to Sam. Hunt evidently heard him, though, and gave Morgan another scowl. "To your face, perhaps..."

Sam could tell that this situation was already not going well, and seemed destined only to get worse. He also had a nasty feeling that Hunt was going to find a way to blame him for whatever happened, even though his only offence was turning up at the front desk at the same time as Mr Morgan. And yet he couldn't just stand by and do nothing. He cleared his throat. "He is entitled."

Deacon pounced on Sam's words like a drowning man on a lifebelt. "Yeah! You heard him. I'm entitled."

The words seemed to affect Gene Hunt as a red rag would a bull. He put his face next to Deacon's and yelled at him. "You're entitled to shove a teaspoon up your bum and shit sugar lumps, but that doesn't mean I want it happening in my station!"

Whirling around again so quickly that his tie flew over his shoulder, he turned to Sam Tyler. "Shall I tell you why we call them briefs?" He looked at Morgan with scorn for a second. "Because their

job is to cover up for dirty little scrotes!"

Morgan frowned like a man smelling something unpleasant. "Really, DCI Hunt, I must ask you to display some professional courtesy."

Hunt muttered something that sounded to Tyler like "Professional bollocks."

"Would you perhaps be good enough to enlighten me as to why you have arrested my client?" Morgan carried on in a voice as cold and smooth as ice.

"We arrested him," Hunt rejoindered, "because he was wandering down Daybury Street this lunchtime, pissed as the proverbial fart, waving a shooter around and popping off bullets at people's television ariels. Due to some oversight on the sight of Her Majesty's parliament, this is actually a breach of the Firearms Act 1968, and so instead of letting him carry on his drunken way with his weapon until he shot someone – preferably himself – two uniformed officers hauled him in here."

Sam Tyler blinked. "Uniformed officers?" he exclaimed, before he could stop to consider.

Hunt's withering gaze turned back to Tyler. "Yes, uniformed officers. Who did you think?"

"An armed suspect?"

"Stevie Deacon wasn't an armed suspect!" snorted Hunt. "Stevie Deacon is a useless prat. He couldn't shoot anyone any more than I could fly you back to Hyde on angel wings. And Christ knows that sometimes I'd like to." One finger shot out to point at Sam Tyler. "Come with me, Tyler. I need a few words."

Morgan cleared his throat. "I assume I am to be given proper time and space in which to consult with my client?"

Gene Hunt went red in the face.

"He is entitled, guv." Chris Skelton's voice sounded a little nervous, but Sam breathed a metaphorical sigh of relief.

"Fine!" yelped Hunt. "Skelton, you come with me too. We'll let Deacon and his brief have their little teddy bears' picnic in here. Would you like us to send in some biscuits on a little paper doily too?"

"Got any Jammie Dodgers?" asked Deacon hopefully, and jerked back again as Hunt's fist clenched involuntarily. Then Hunt gave a groan of sheer frustration and strode to the door, leaving Sam Tyler and Chris Skelton to exchange worried glances and follow in the DCI's wake.


	4. Chapter 4

"Carling!" Gene Hunt's voice sounded like the trump of doom. Ray Carling hit three typewriter keys at once and they jammed together in a metallic clump an inch away from the form he was trying to type.

"Carling! Get your arse over to my room!" Hunt commanded.

"I thought you wanted these forms typed, guv –"

"My room!" roared Hunt. Skelton and Tyler appeared behind him. "Yes, you two idiots as well."

Inside his office, Hunt sat on the edge of his desk. "Jesus wept," he said wearily, looking straight at Sam Tyler. "Five minutes more and I'd have had the full S.P. out of Deacon. Where the gun came from, what he was doing with it, who he was going to do it with, who he was going to do _with_ it. But no, the Seventh Cavalry has to come riding to the rescue in the form of Sam Tyler and a dodgy bleeding brief!"

Carling turned a resentful eye on Sam.

"I didn't fetch him, guv," Tyler protested. "He just turned up as I got here and Phyllis sent him up with me."

That didn't seem to mollify Hunt one iota. "You could have kept him busy for a few minutes," he growled. "Taken him on a scenic tour of the building. Or got him shut in the lift."

"Shut in the lift?"

"Yes!" snapped Hunt. "Ray did that one time. By the time the fire brigade got here to let the brief out, his client had coughed the whole blag. Sent him away for ten years. Lovely piece of work that was."

Ray Carling grinned for a couple of seconds in pride at the praise.

"But no, DI Tyler is the criminal's friend and he delivers the brief to his side faster than Jimmy bloody Savile riding on a train. I despair." Hunt pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one, breathing in the smoke as though he hoped it would bring him some relief from the idiocy around him. "So we have to back off them, and Deacon and Morgan get time to concoct a nice little story. Found it in the street indeed! Thought it was a kid's pop gun! You three – listen to me and listen good."

Skelton, Carling and Tyler all gave Hunt their fullest of attention.

"Deacon is a petty criminal. He's been nicked a dozen times for shoplifting, smash and grabs, nicking ladies' handbags. That kind of twopenny ha'penny mischief. He's scum, but he is not normally dangerous scum. So when he turns up with a shooter for the first time in his career, a little alarm bell goes off in my mind. What's going on here, I wonder. And do you know what else?"

Hunt scanned the trio before him. None of them had an answer for him.

"Stevie Deacon is not the sort of criminal," Hunt carried on, "who can command a brief like Martin Morgan. Even if Stevie Deacon had the gumption to know that he's entitled to have a brief, he wouldn't be able to whistle for anyone above your basic Legal Aid bottom-feeding hack with an office the size of a broom cupboard down Deansgate."

Something about Sam Tyler's face drew Hunt's attention. "Do you actually _know_ Killingworth Inch Shackle, Tyler? You can't tell me that they don't take a trip down to Hyde when some fat cat needs his arse wiping."

Sam had to shake his head.

"Christ almighty. Shackles are not criminal defence scum. Shackles are big corporate lawyers. They advertise behind City's goal at Maine Road. They sponsor youth clubs and worthy causes. They deal with insurance, they deal with property. They are big, they are posh. They are also," he added contemplatively, "bent as a nine bob note, but trying to prove that… has no future in it. White collar victimless crime. I don't have the time to straighten something like that out."

"A crime's a crime, guv," Sam pointed out, knowing as he did so that he was flogging a dead horse.

"Yes, and I'm sure in Hyde you lot sort out mazes like that every day. Here in town, we are sort of busy stopping armed robberies, murders and other real crimes. But that doesn't alter the fact that there are two things going on here that look strange. Stevie Deacon with a gun. And Stevie Deacon being represented by a big cheese from Shackle's. So. You three. Get to work on this. Find out where that gun came from and why Deacon had it. Whilst I," he concluded with a self-pitying sigh, "go to talk to Mister Martin Bloody Morgan again and see what change I can get out of him. Which won't be enough to get a cup of tea from the drinks machine."


	5. Chapter 5

"Anyone seen WDC Cartwright?" asked Tyler, looking around the room.

"The high flying bird? She went down to the canteen just before the guv starting doing his nut over Stevie Deacon," Carling replied, sitting back at his desk and glaring at the half-completed form in his typewriter.

Tyler couldn't be bothered to challenge Carling for his sexism yet again. Instead he headed for the door, revolving the matter of Deacon in his mind.

Normally he would have walked down to the canteen in the cause of keeping fit, especially given the 1973 menu that was all he could expect to find on offer down there, all stodge and carbohydrates. But recalling Hunt's words regarding how Ray Carling had once trapped someone in the lift, Sam turned and entered the elevator instead.

How did you contrive to strand someone in between floors? Especially from the outside… or had Carling been inside with the solicitor? Tyler didn't know. He looked for a moment at the control panel, one numbered button for each floor, and with a shrug he pushed the control which would take him down to the canteen.

The doors slid shut and the lift descended for about two seconds. Then it came to a halt with a sudden jerk, yanking Sam Tyler out of his reverie.

Every light on the control panel, including the EMERGENCY light, was illuminated.

He pushed the button for the canteen again. No response. He pushed the button for CID's floor. Nothing. He thumped every button on the panel. Zero.

A voice began to issue from the grille set at the top of the panel, above the EMERGENCY button. It was tinny and mechanical, but the words were as clear as crystal.

"…_already tried most obvious intervention methods to bring him out of his coma…"_

Tyler swallowed. It was going to be another one of _those_ days. And he'd been feeling so happy until he got to work.

"…now trying some longer shots. We're asking all Sam's family and friends to make lists of items familiar to him..."

He stared at the grille, then put his mouth by it. "Can you hear me…?" he asked, although he was certain from past experience that the answer would be in the negative. Or rather, that there would be no answer at all.

"…some evidence suggests that the presence of favourite items may have a positive effect on coma sufferers… already brought in his favourite shoes and tie…"

Tyler grabbed hold of his shirt front. No tie there; there never was, these days. Hunt sometimes ribbed him about his preference for open-necked shirts; somehow he'd lost the habit of wearing a tie when he landed in 1973, and had never regained it.

"…_some of his favourite books… his chess set…"_

Chess. Sam Tyler hadn't played a single game of chess since becoming unstuck in time. He was hardly a champion in 2006, but he'd played in matches for the police chess club's team against other Manchester clubs, when time permitted. His well-worn Staunton set lived in his locker at the station in 2006.

"…even if their presence is insufficient to awaken him, they can do no harm. And perhaps on some level he may become aware of them and they will help his mind focus, give him that little extra push that may bring him back to us… Sam: if you're able to hear me –"

"I can hear you! I can hear you…" Sam groaned into the speaker grille.

"…all the GMP chess team have been by to visit. They say they need you back for the match against Stockport next week…"

Stockport! He remembered that match from last year. He'd been up against a solemn middle-aged man who had matched him move for move all the way to a tight king-and-pawn endgame. Which he'd lost. Afterwards he'd gone away and read up on endgame theory, and found out he'd blundered away a won position. He'd sworn never to do that again. The thought of getting his revenge on his Stockport opponent…!

"Yes! Tell them yes! Yes, I'll play!"

Silence from the speaker grille.

Tyler clenched his fists and started hammering at the grille. "Listen to me! I want to play! Tell them I'll play –"

All of a sudden, the lights on the panel went out and the lift jerked back into motion. Tyler stopped punching the controls as he suddenly realised that his fist wasn't just clenched; it was clenched around something. He opened his hand to find a black chess knight sitting there, warm from his grip.

A gentle 'ding' sounded as the lift came to a halt and the doors slid open.


	6. Chapter 6

Annie looked at him compassionately over her plate of beans on toast. "Are you having another one of those days?"

Sam hadn't realised that Annie had come to know him well enough that she could tell just by looking at him. "Yes." He pushed his hand into his pocket and let go of the black knight. Somehow he didn't feel like trying to explain its presence, even to Annie Cartwright, the one person here in 1973 who knew that he was from the future. Or knew that he believed he was.

Annie sighed. "Is that why you came down after me?"

"No," Sam said. "How was your holiday?" It sounded lame and he knew it, but he couldn't think of any better conversational gambit.

"Oh, it was cracking," Annie said. "Rained all week. And then of course the first day back Manchester catches the sun for the first day in ages. Does it still rain in Manchester in 2006?"

Sam gave up trying to divert the conversation. "Yes… yes, it does."

"They haven't got weather control machines, then, like in sci-fi?"

He shook his head.

"Seems odd, with all the other things you've told me about," Annie commented. There was no mockery in her voice, only sympathy. Sam would almost have preferred mockery.

"They might be working on them. I don't watch Tomorrow's World all that much," he said. Annie blinked.

"You don't expect me to believe Tomorrow's World is still running in 2006?" she asked him. "I think your wonderful imagination's let you down a bit, there."

"Never mind Tomorrow's World," Sam said, trying to recall whether it actually still was running or not in his real life. He hadn't seen an episode for a few years, but then he had so little time to watch television. "Would you believe Doctor Who's still around?"

At that, Annie laughed outright. "That's a good one! I remember that show starting, with that old geezer… what was his name…."

"William Hartnell."

"Yes! Him. And then they went and changed the actor playing him, and made up some mumbo jumbo excuse for it, didn't they? Kids' show, they'll swallow anything, I suppose."

"They're onto the tenth Doctor now," remarked Sam, which made Annie shake her head in disbelief again. "The ninth one actually came from Manchester…"

"Sam…"

Sam held his hand up. It still felt a little warm from where he'd been gripping the knight.

"Not now, Annie. I truly didn't come down to talk about it. Did you hear anything about the man we've got in custody at the moment? Steven Deacon?"

"Stevie Deacon? That little toe-rag? What's he done this time?"

"Apparently," Sam said, "possession of firearms."

"That doesn't sound like Stevie."

"Gene Hunt said that too," Sam pointed out. "He thinks there's something odd going on. Is there anything you can tell me about Deacon? Or about a law firm called Killingworth Inch Shackle?"

"Deacon… he's just a little low-lifer," Annie replied, with a pensive look. "Sneak thief type. Wouldn't have thought he was the type to go armed. What's Shackles got to do with this? They're a big firm. You hear a few dodgy rumours about them but they make a lot of money. I think they're tied into a lot of big local property deals. Redeveloping down in Salford, the new road construction, that type of thing. They do a lot of charity stuff. In fact I think they're sponsoring that big chess match tomorrow – What?"

Annie Cartwright broke off as Sam jerked upright in his chair.

"Chess match? A big chess match in Manchester?"

"Oh yes! Chess is all the rage nowadays, didn't you know? Ever since that big world championship match in Iceland last year, with that American Bobby Fischer beating the Russians at last. I think the Russian he beat is going to be in town. Boris… Boris something…"

"Boris Spassky?"

"Yes, that's it! Oh, you _do_ know something about chess after all. Do you think Fischer won that match fairly, then? Or do you reckon his tantrums drove Spassky round the bend and made him play badly?"

"Never mind that now!" Sam gasped at Annie. Pieces of a jigsaw puzzle were whirling around his mind. They didn't fit together, not all of them, and yet some of them were forming a vague, almost familiar shape… "Annie, I've got to go and see Gene Hunt."


	7. Chapter 7

The look that Gene Hunt gave Sam Tyler was equally as full of astonishment as the one Annie Cartwright had given him earlier. While Annie's had been tempered with sympathy, Gene's was simply loaded with scorn.

"Are you pulling my plonker, Tyler? You think the reason Stevie Deacon was tooled up was because he's involved in some blag against a bloody _chess match_?"

"You have to remember, guv," Tyler said, trying desperately to find the words which would persuade Hunt to take him seriously. "Chess is big business for the moment. You must remember it was all over the telly last year. Fischer versus Spassky in Iceland."

"Oddly enough," Gene responded, "I don't think I caught any of that. I was too busy with Derby County versus Man City at Maine Road. All right. I know that face you've got on. It means you've got one of your bloody hunches again that sounds mad and turns out to be the key to the whole case as often as not. I'm listening."

"Boris Spassky," Sam began. "Russian chess player. Genius level. Lost the world championship to Fischer in 1972. But still a big, big name." He pulled a copy of the Manchester Evening News which he'd blagged from Phyllis out of his jacket pocket, folded to the lower half of the front page. The photograph of a handsome young light-haired man accompanied the story he pointed at. "Tomorrow, he plays a fifty-board simul at the Grand Central Hotel."

"He plays a _what_?"

"Fifty board simultaneous tournament. Fifty local chess players all take on Spassky, at once." Somehow Sam was not surprised to learn that Gene Hunt wasn't a chess player. "For which he's being sponsored. Twenty thousand pounds. Which is a lot more than chess grandmasters normally get, but chess is big news at the moment, and the sponsors are going to get a lot of publicity out of the deal. And look." He jabbed a finger at a sentence he'd underlined in the newspaper report: _The match is being organised by Manchester Chess Federation, but is made possible by the generous sponsorship from local law firm, Killingworth Inch Shackle._

Gene Hunt suddenly looked very interested. He snatched the paper unceremoniously out of Tyler's hands, and read the article, his eyes coming so close to the small type of the newsprint that his cigarette was in danger of setting the newspaper on fire.

A tap on the office door sounded, and Ray Carling's head peered around. "Got a moment, guv?"

"What?" barked Hunt.

"Chris and me have been turning some stones over." The rest of Carling's body followed his head into the room. "Chris bought a few people some pints at the Crown and Anchor down by where Deacon got hauled in, and they say he's been spending money pretty freely these last few days. Not just in the pub either, though apparently he's been keeping himself pretty well juiced up. And… this one's gonna sound a bit of a long shot. But you wanted us to look at Shackles, the lawyers, too. So I've been speaking to a couple of other briefs I know socially." He winked. "Word is, Shackles are in a bit of a bind. Overstretched themselves financially. One of the briefs I spoke to said he wouldn't be surprised to hear they'd gone bust. He was waiting to swoop in and pick up the pieces. You know what these briefs are like, guv. Vultures. They'll eat their own dead the way you'd eat a cheese sandwich. This any good to you?"

Gene Hunt's face was a picture. He sat on the edge of his desk, folded the newspaper he was holding back up, and looked at Ray Carling.

"Do you play chess, Ray?"

It was Carling's turn to display astonishment.

"Chess? Blimey, guv. Used to play at school a bit. Not for years."


	8. Chapter 8

Stevie Deacon's head jerked suddenly upward as the cell door opened to admit Sam Tyler.

"Afternoon, Steve," Tyler said politely enough. Deacon gave him a suspicious look as Tyler pulled a small box and a square piece of wood from under his arm.

"What you got there?"

"What's it look like, Steve? It's a chess set. I heard tell you were a man who could play a decent game. I like a game of chess myself, and goodness knows the other coppers here don't know a rook from a bishop, mostly. So I thought I'd pop by and see if you were up for a game." Sam gave Deacon a smile.

Suspicion still hung around Deacon's face like a teenage delinquent on a street corner, but he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I play chess. I'm pretty good too. About the only thing I am good at… but I can play chess all right."

Sitting on the end of the shelf-like object that served as a bed for the cell, Tyler started setting the board up. "You hear Spassky's coming to town?"

"Yeah!" There was sudden passion in Deacon's voice, sounding odd coming from him compared to his normal hangdog, scapegrace style. "I'm…" His smile faded. "…I was meant to be playing him in the tournament tomorrow."

Sam Tyler punched the air mentally. "Really? Wish I was good enough for that."

"Don't suppose I'll be out in time for that, will I?" Deacon looked at Tyler with a strange sidelong expression.

"Have to see, won't we?" Tyler held out both hands in front of him. Tyler tapped his right hand, and Tyler opened it to reveal a white pawn. "Blimey, that's all I need. You get white."

Deacon put the pawn in its place. Tyler put the black pawn in its row with its fellows, too. Then Deacon's hand went to his queen's pawn and jerked it forward two squares.

Twenty moves later Tyler tipped over his king in resignation. "Nice play," he said to Deacon, who was beaming proudly at having shown the forces of the law where they got off in a way that could lead to no reprisals. Inside his head, Tyler was beaming too. Even more broadly.


	9. Chapter 9

Gene Hunt examined a typed list of names.

"Steve Deacon isn't on here," he pointed out.

"Of course he isn't, guv," Chris Skelton interjected. "If he's about to do an armed blag at this chess match, he's hardly going to enter in his real name, is he? And look." He pointed a finger halfway down the list. "Board twenty-three. Simon Donaldson. Same initials as Steve Deacon. If a criminal's going to use a false name he often picks one that has the same initials as his real one. That's psychology," he added with a glance at Sam Tyler, as if to seek his approval. Hunt picked up on the glance and looked at Tyler, too.

"It's a fact," Tyler agreed. "I think we've got enough to be worried about, here. Don't you?"

Skelton nodded. After a pause, Carling also nodded. Finally Hunt completed the set, inclining his head slowly.

"I think we need to get in there tomorrow. Ray, you said you used to play chess."

"Well, yes, guv, but –"

"No bloody buts. You're entering that tournament. Chris, you play, don't you?"

"A bit…"

"You're in the tournament too."

"I play as well, guv," pointed out Sam.

"I sort of guessed that one," growled Gene.

"How about you?" Sam asked the DCI.

Gene Hunt gave Sam a look of the utmost disdain. "Me play chess? Are you out of your tiny mind, Sam? I'm too busy catching crooks to push bits of wood around a board. And spare me the lecture about how playing chess trains your mind to apply lessons learned from it to real world policing. I can see you just bursting to tell me. Speech may be taken as read, okay?"

"Okay," agreed Sam. "I was just going to say it's not like you not to want to be in on something like this."

"Not want to be in?" roared Gene. "Of course I'm bloody well in! I'm going to play this Boris Spasstik geezer as well. If anyone tries anything dodgy I belong on the spot. I'm damned if I'm letting you three down there at the Grand Central to play Harpo, Chico and Groucho without me."

"Does that make you Zeppo, or Margaret Dumont?" asked Sam, unable to restrain himself from the quip. Hunt looked blank, though a suppressed snort from Chris Skelton showed that he, at least, got the joke.

"It makes me a copper who's going to stop a possible armed robbery, same as you," Hunt said. "Now, which of you fairies is going to show me how to play chess?"


	10. Chapter 10

The main hall at the Grand Central hotel was abuzz; not least with the protests of three chess players, who were complaining loudly to a hapless organiser (behind whom stood Annie Cartwright, making sure he didn't waver) that they had booked their places to play Spassky weeks ago and had confirmation and everything, so why were they being told now that they were only reserves?

Only one player was conspicuous by his absence as the entries closed, and that was Simon Donaldson.

Meantime, Gene Hunt was sitting behind a chess board looking like a ham sandwich at a bar mitzvah. Sam Tyler had seen Hunt in many different contexts since he had been catapulted back in time to 1973, and rarely if ever had he seen the DCI looking at such a loss.

"The horsey ones are the ones that jump over the others, right?" Hunt muttered to Tyler. Tyler nodded.

"And they're the ones that can't go in a straight line? They make an L shape?"

Another nod.

"Bloody silly game if you ask me," Hunt concluded. "If scrotes like Stevie Deacon are good at it, that's a strike against it far as I'm concerned."

Further down the row of tables Chris Skelton was sitting poring over a little handbook of chess openings. Further down still, Ray Carling's seat was empty; Carling himself was coming across the room from the direction of the hotel bar with a pint of beer in either hand.

"Here you go, guv. Courtesy of the famous grandmaster Whitbread," he grinned as he set one pint next to Gene Hunt. Hunt's hand flashed out to it as quickly as ever a chess player's hand reached out to capture a piece, and he took a long and grateful drink. "God, that's better," Hunt sighed.

Five minutes to the start of the simultaneous tournament. Spectators were starting to fill the public area.

"Never knew chess was so popular," said Hunt, looking around.

"It is, for now," Tyler said. "Won't last."

"Won't it?" Hunt gave Sam Tyler a perplexed look.

Sam gave a shrug, as if to hint that he'd just been pulling a prediction out of the air.

"Come on, genius. Get back to your set and your coffee cup. Spasstik'll be out in a minute." Hunt took another long swig of beer.

The organiser returned to his table at the head of the hall. Annie Cartwright joined him there keeping a watchful eye on the players in front of her. Boris Spassky appeared at his appointed time to the second, to receive a polite but enthusiastic round of applause from the assembled players and spectators. He smiled modestly as he began to walk down the rows of chessboards, making white's first move on each board. Sam Tyler's heart was thumping, and he realised suddenly that it wasn't just because he was poised for action, ready to help foil a threatened crime. He was sitting at a chessboard, about to face one of the best players the world had ever known in 1973; hell, still one of the best players the world had ever known in 2006. Sam was enough of a chess player that he could not help feeling a little mindblown. Of all the things that had happened since he was pitchforked back in time, this was surely one of the oddest. He touched his belt holster to help ground himself. He must not forget that he was here as a police officer, not as a chess player.

Spassky completed his first move on board fifty and began to circle the room again. He played his second move against Tyler; against Hunt, sitting in the seat that should have been given to "Simon Donaldson"; against Carling and against Skelton, against forty-six other players; and around he went again.

After nine moves Gene Hunt stood up with a scowl and looked at the Russian grandmaster opposite him as if he wanted to punch him. Spassky extended a hand, and Hunt took it, without dropping his scowl, and shook it before sitting back down and staring at his checkmated king, unable to believe that he'd been vanquished in such a short space of time.

Move twelve, and Sam Tyler looked at his position thoughtfully. It was a little cramped – Spassky was coming out of the opening with an advantage – but it certainly wasn't lost, at least not yet. Only one piece remained to be developed, his queen's knight, and his last move had made a safe spot for it to come out at last. Making a final mental check, he reached out and grasped the knight.

It was as if by touching the piece, he'd activated some kind of switch. Boris Spassky, standing at another board a few tables away from Sam, flickered out of existence. So did the rest of the room, a few tables at a time, a few people followed by a few more. The big chandeliers in the ceiling went. The audience went. Within seconds only Sam Tyler himself was left, with a chess board in front of him but no opponent, and his queen's knight grasped in the palm of a suddenly clenched fist.

"…_sudden activity from Sam… he's actually moved his hand… within minutes of us setting up the chessboard, he reached out and took hold of a piece…" _ The voice seemed to come from everywhere around him, and yet from nowhere.

Sam jerked his hand open and stared at the black knight, wide-eyed. The voice droned on.

"…may be a simple random muscle movement, so we mustn't get our hopes up too high… brain stem function remains constant… but he's holding the piece firmly…"

"It's not bloody random!" yelped Sam.

The man on the next board looked at Sam Tyler curiously as he sat there rigidly, eyes closed, knight clutched in his raised hand. Then he shrugged. Chess players did some strange things when they were thinking deeply. He'd once stirred his cup of tea with his queen instead of a teaspoon when calculating a combination. He switched his focus away from Tyler and back to the position in front of him, where Spassky seemed about to win a pawn no matter what move Black made to try and prevent it.

Five seconds later his concentration was broken for a second time.

"NOBODY MOVE!"

Another player, further down the line, had jumped up from his seat, scattering chessmen everywhere, and was pointing a gun straight at Boris Spassky. Vaulting over the table, he grabbed Spassky and shoved the gun under his chin.

"ARMED POLICE! EVERYBODY GET DOWN!" Gene Hunt came out of his chair like a partridge disturbed by a beater, and his shout echoed around the hall even more than that of the gunman had.

Screams, shouts and general pandemonium broke out. Chessmen scattered as chess players dived under their tables or ran towards the exits. A shot rang out; another player had pulled a gun, and Ray Carling had drawn his own weapon and fired at the second criminal. Two more men were running in from the direction of the street, both wearing balaclavas. Chris Skelton dived at one and brought him down with a rugby tackle that David Duckham might have been proud of. He cannoned into the second one, whose drawn pistol went off and fired its bullet up into one of the hotel chandeliers, sending bits of shattered crystal everywhere.

Only one man in the room remained motionless. Sam Tyler remained like a statue at his chessboard, eyes screwed shut, black knight still in his hand. 


	11. Chapter 11

"TYLER! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU PLAYING AT?" roared Hunt.

Chris Skelton and his target were rolling on the floor exchanging punches. Ray Carling was on top of the man he'd shot, pummeling what consciousness remained to the criminal out of him. The man who'd grabbed Spassky glanced around wildly, obviously conscious that things had gone wrong, very wrong. He tightened his grip on Spassky and began dragging him away; not towards the street where the two men with balaclavas had come from, but towards one of the hall's other doors, where a sign read STAFF ONLY.

"…there are definite signs of increased brain function… the coma is becoming less deep… Come on, Sam! We're all here pulling for you!"

"I'm coming! I'm coming!" Sam Tyler brandished his fist in the air, the top of the knight's head protruding between his knuckles. "I just need to know how to get back! Tell me how to get back!"

"…_Come on, Sam, old man." _The voice was a different one, but it was one he knew; it was Pete Knox, one of the other players on the police chess team. _"We all miss you. You belong here with us. I want to get my own back on you for that gambit you beat me with last month. Come on, Sam! You can do it."_

The gambit against Pete Knox. Sam remembered it with a sudden flash. One of the best games he'd ever played. Sacrificed a pawn in the opening, then a rook and a knight in order to trap Knox's king in the corner and make checkmate inescapable. Knox had stared at him with a rueful look and said "Since when did you take lessons from Bobby Fischer?"

Bobby Fischer… The man who'd beaten Boris Spassky thirty-four years before.

Or one year before.

Boris Spassky.

Why was Boris Spassky important?

He couldn't remember.

Gene Hunt faced the gunman. Hunt's gun was levelled at the criminal. The criminal's gun was still jammed under Boris Spassky's chin. The blond Russian grandmaster stared at Gene Hunt in confusion and fear.

"Drop that gun," snarled Hunt, "or I'll blow a hole in you big enough to fit a whole chess set in."

"Screw you, copper," growled the other man. "Drop _your_ gun or I'll shoot this geezer. I mean it."

A second ticked past, and another. Impasse. Slowly, Gene Hunt's fingers opened and his pistol dropped to the carpeted floor. The criminal smiled nastily.

"Smart move, copper. Now don't come after me or I will blow his head off." The criminal stooped quickly to pick up Hunt's gun, then moved swiftly to the STAFF ONLY door and jerked it open, to vanish through it, still dragging the hapless Spassky with him.

Hunt snarled a curse and looked around. Carling and Skelton had dealt with two of the other criminals. Where was the third? Looking in the other direction, he found the answer to that one; he was trying to make his escape past the organiser's table. The attempt was not successful; as he turned away from the table, Annie Cartwright leapt to her feet, snatching up a spare chessboard, and brought it down with a crack on the balaclava-wearing man's heard loud enough to make Hunt wince.

That just left Sam Tyler.

Who was still sitting like a fart in a trance, with one hand in the air. Gene Hunt's face went puce with fury.

He took one step towards Tyler, then wheeled away. No time for that useless bastard now. Hunt charged the STAFF ONLY door through which the last remaining criminal had vanished with his hostage, with such force that it nearly came off its hinges.

"…_brain function steady at increased level… breathing up… blood adrenalin levels rising… I think we may be getting somewhere!…"_

"_Come on, Sam! Wakey wakey, eggs and bacey!"_

Sam stared at the chessboard in front of him, the only thing he could see through the haze of light. He was in the middle of a game with… someone. Who? Why was it so important? Why couldn't he see his opponent's face?

"…_levels steady, steady… hmm… improvement is plateauing…"_

Boris Spassky. He was playing Boris Spassky.

What? How could he be playing the veteran Russian grandmaster? What kind of fevre-dream fantasy was this? He couldn't play Boris Spassky to save his life. He was just a woodpusher who played for the police team sometimes. He played in matches against clubs like Stockport.

"…_levels remaining steady… damn! Come on, Sam, you just need one little push more…"_

Yes, that was right. This had to be a police chess club match. He looked at the position. One little push more… yes. If he brought the knight out now, and then pushed his queen-side pawns, he should claim enough space to counterbalance White's centre advantage…

"_Sam! Sam, he's getting away! Sam! Wake up!"_

That was another new voice. A woman's voice. Odd, that.

"Sam! Sam, he's getting away! Wake up!"

Annie Cartwright stared at the motionless Sam Tyler in dismay. He showed no visible signs of injury or having been shot, but… he wasn't responding. There was chaos all around, plain-clothes CID mixing with ambulance staff and newly-arrived uniformed officers trying to calm down the bystanders and isolate the criminals. Ray Carling was still sitting on top of one of the latter group, who was bleeding and groaning, and arguing with an ambulance man who was trying to persuade Carling to get off him and allow him to administer first aid.

"Oh for god's sake Sam!" cried Annie in frustration. "You've got to wake up! Gene Hunt's gone after one of them… and he's got Spassky!"

"…and he's got Spassky!"

Got Spassky? Sam Tyler shook his head muzzily. Who had got Spassky? What did that mean?

He hadn't got time to worry about that now. He'd just seen the best move on the board. Triumphantly he placed the knight down on its square.

And the world exploded into a million fragments.


	12. Chapter 12

As Annie watched, Sam's frozen form jerked into sudden motion. His tightly clenched fist moved downward towards his chessboard, and relinquished his grasp on the black knight, leaving it on a new square. As he did so, his eyes popped open and he stared blankly at Annie.

"Annie… what…?"

"Oh, for god's sake, Sam! Snap out of it! There's an armed criminal on the loose in the hotel, with Boris Spassky as a hostage!"

"…and he's got Spassky!"

A burst of nausea came up on Sam Tyler like a wave landing on the beach at Scarborough. He retched for a second, then by willpower more than anything else, climbed to his feet.

"Where'd he go?"

Annie pointed to the STAFF ONLY door. "Through there… and Gene Hunt's after him…"

His head was still buzzing as Sam stared towards the door. Questions raced through his mind. In 2006, Boris Spassky was still alive – still playing chess. If – _if _– this 1973 was the real 1973 and he, Sam Tyler, had genuinely travelled back in time, what would it mean if Spassky should come to harm here? Was he risking some kind of complicated time paradox? Or was he just chasing shadows in his comatose mind, and was this all just another figment of his imagination? Or –

He pushed the thoughts away from him. Only one thought was allowed to remain. He was an armed police officer, and a criminal had a member of the public in mortal danger.

A second thought fought its way to join the first. Gene Hunt was on the scene too, and Gene Hunt was also in danger, even if he was also armed. Sam's place was alongside his guv'nor, and there was no questioning that.

Tyler grabbed a passing member of the hotel staff as he ran past. "You! I'm a police officer. What's through that door?"

"The kitchens…" came a gasped reply.

"Is there any other way to the kitchens?"

"Y-yes… you can get in from the staff car park entrance, round the back –"

That was all Tyler needed to know. He thrust the man away from him with enough force to make him stagger, and broke into a run towards the exit to the street, then along the pavement outside, running with all his might to circle the hotel, aiming to join DCI Hunt from the other side and – if he was lucky – surround the man who had Spassky as his hostage.

A breathless Chris Skelton came up to Annie Cartwright. "Hey up, Annie. You all right?"

"I'm fine," said Annie, emphasising the personal pronoun. "God knows about DI Tyler though… and the guv…"

"Hey!" The shout came from Ray Carling. Annie and Chris rushed over to join him by the organiser's table.

"Looks like old Tyler was bloody well right again," Carling said with reluctant admiration. He gestured at the criminal whose head Annie had cracked with the chessboard, still lying in a daze on the floor. Carling had peeled off the man's balaclava, revealing the tousled but distinctive features of Martin Morgan of Killingworth Inch Shackle, Solicitors.


	13. Chapter 13

The hotel kitchen was in sudden chaos as the gunman burst into it, Boris Spassky stumbling along with him, the gun pressed against the grandmaster's head and the thug's arm round his throat. Chefs and waitresses screamed and panicked. Someone upset a big pan of potatoes, sending half-cooked spuds and boiling water over the floor and steam up into the air.

"Which way's the staff exit?" snarled the kidnapper. One of the cooks pointed at a door with a shaking hand and the crook started to drag Spassky towards it.

"This one?" yelled the gunman, taking the gun away from Spassky's face for a second to gesture at the door with the firearm.

There was a crash as the door to the kitchen burst back open and Gene Hunt strode in. "Oi! Sunshine!" Despite the mayhem, Hunt assessed the situation in an instant, and seeing the kidnapper's weapon temporarily pointing away from Boris Spassky, he jerked his arm at a catering-sized metal bowl of vegetables that stood on the work surface by the door. A shower of cold water and raw Brussels sprouts descended on Spassky and the thug, followed in a split second by the metal bowl itself which, whether by sheer chance or by skill on Hunt's part, smacked the gunman in the face with perfect aim, making him stagger.

Hunt seized his moment. Vaulting across the work surface with an agility few people who did not know the DCI well would have suspected he possessed, he pounced on the gunman and began to wrestle with him for control of his weapon. Spassky dropped to the floor and began to crawl under one of the work surfaces in search of safety.

And then the door to the staff car park smashed open and Sam Tyler came running through. "Armed police! Drop your weapons!"

"I already did that, you pea brain." Somehow Gene Hunt still had enough breath to spare to respond to Tyler even as he wrestled with the criminal for the gun.

Tyler took a deep breath and his hand went to his holster. All his 2006 training about the use of weapons in hostage situations rushed through his head for a couple of seconds, then stopped as his hand found the holster inside the waistline of his trousers contained not a gun but… a black chess knight. He 'drew' the knight from the holster and paused for a moment's astonished stare at it – a moment which he could ill afford. And a moment which was not lost on Gene Hunt.

"You great dozy bastard, Tyler!"

Tyler didn't waste another moment being a dozy bastard, of any size. He jumped at the criminal, with the base of the knight in his hand, and the three men were locked in a tripartite struggle which could only have one ending.

While Hunt still used all his strength to keep the man's gun from acquiring a human target, Tyler drove the sharp ears of the black knight into his adversary's cheek.

The pointed wood ripped its target open and the man shrieked in pain as blood sprang from the gash on his face. The gun dropped from his hand and hit the tiled floor with a heavy crash. Spassky, who for all his shock evidently had his wits about him, popped out from his place of concealment and snatched up the weapon.

"He's got my gun too!" panted Hunt, throwing the groaning criminal against the wall and grasping both his wrists in a vice-like grip. Tyler began to frisk him, and soon located Hunt's weapon, which he removed and secured.

"Got your cuffs on you, Tyler?" Hunt asked. "Or are you going to put a couple of pawns round his wrists instead?"

Thankfully, Sam Tyler found that he did have his cuffs and locked them around the kidnapper's wrists.

"Well, thank you, Paladin," sighed Hunt as he pushed the thug to the floor with perhaps more force than was strictly required. Blood dripped from the wounded man's face into the mess of water and vegetables that were scattered over the floor. "Have knight, will bloody well travel… What in God's name were you playing at?"

Sam Tyler wished he knew. He looked at the knight he was still grasping firmly, its ears and face stained with blood now, as he tried to come up with an answer.

Instead Boris Spassky spoke. "Th… thank you very much, shentlemen," he panted in a Russian accent. "You save my life, you two. I am in your debt."

Gene Hunt looked Spassky up and down, seemingly now at a loss for words himself.

"Even though you play the worst chess ever," Spassky went on with a rueful smile to Hunt. "But you…" He turned to Tyler. "You not bad. Here. Shall we make an exchange? The knight is a useful piece but the gun… the gun is stronger even than the queen…" He held out the gun toward Tyler. Tyler quickly took it from him, and as he did so, Spassky took the knight out of Tyler's hand instead.

For a second, or the fraction of a second, the room shuddered and Tyler seemed to hear a faint echo.

"Brain activity returning to previous levels… damn it all… he's going back in…"

"_So much for Stockport… Well, it was worth a try…" _Knox's voice.

Tyler shook himself, and the voices faded to nothingness, as though they were on a fast train disappearing into the distance.

Skelton and Carling pushed their way into the kitchen, both with guns in their hands.

"Everything under control, guv?"

"Everything under control," Hunt confirmed. "Apart from Dreamboat here, who nearly buggered the whole thing up for all of us. But then again, if it hadn't been for his detective work we'd not have been here to stop the blag in the first place." He looked Sam Tyler straight in the eye. "I don't know whether to send you to the Town Hall to get a medal, or to the bus stop down the road to get you back to Hyde and out of my bloody department."

"I got a suggestion," piped up Skelton diffidently. The other three officers all looked at him. So did Boris Spassky.

"Let's get these bad guys booked quick," Skelton said. "And we can be down the Railway Arms for opening time?"

Tyler was about to laugh wildly at Skelton's suggestion, and to ask him to think again about how much paperwork would ensue from a gunfight and attempted kidnap of an international celebrity, before he reminded himself that this was 1973 and there would be no calls for heads to roll if the officers involved decided to refresh themselves at a hostelry before their documents were completed.

"That works for me, guv," Carling smiled. Hunt looked at Tyler.

"Me too." Tyler nodded. "Skelton, you get this loser here into the back of a Maria. Mr Spassky… if you'll come with me…?"


	14. Chapter 14

The atmosphere in the Railway Arms was so full of smoke that Sam Tyler could hardly see from one side of the bar to the other. He didn't care. He sipped his pint of bitter appreciatively and smiled at Nelson, who smiled back at him and winked.

"Not a bad day's chess, eh, Chris?" he said as DC Skelton appeared by his side at the bar, waving a pound note at Nelson for a refill.

"Yeah…" Chris replied, leaning on the bar and turning to Tyler. "Shame it all blew up when it did, though, eh?"

"How'd you mean?"

"Well," Skelton replied, "Spassky opened with his king's pawn against me, so I played a Sicilian against him, and he let me go into a Dragon, right? So as soon as I fianchettoed my bishop, he played a Yugoslav variation, and castled long, so I pushed my queen's pawn and… What's wrong?"

Tyler was staring at Skelton. "I… didn't know you knew so much about chess."

Chris Skelton chuckled a little self-consciously. "Been top board on the Manchester Police Chess Club ever since I was a woodentop. Didn't you know?"

"Bloody hell," exclaimed Tyler. "I hadn't the faintest."

"Don't talk about it much. Ray and the guv… they think chess is for jessies. But yeah. If things hadn't kicked off when they did… I'd've liked to see how Spassky played our middle game."

Across the bar, Ray Carling banged a ten pence piece into the jukebox. "Bloody hell, Nelson! Do you have nothing on here by anyone but these modern ponces like Bowie and the Sweet? No golden oldies?" He ran his finger along the buttons trying to find some music he approved of.

Nelson joined Carling at the juke box. "I got Beatles, mon."

"Bloody Scousers," was all Carling had to say to that.

Tyler and Skelton wandered over to join Carling as well. "What music do you like, Ray?" asked Tyler.

"I always liked the proper rock and roll… Elvis and Jerry Lee and… Hey, Chuck Berry! Oh shit, "My Ding A Ling." Carling groaned, but pushed the button by it anyway. "Better than any of this other bollocks, I suppose."

The word 'bollocks' made Tyler smile suddenly. "Wait till 1977," Sam Tyler murmured softly as the record swung out of the rack and into place ready for the needle.

"Eh?"

"Nothing."

Sam looked at the jukebox as the record started to revolve and Chuck Berry's tones began to fill the bar. He did a slight double-take as he realised what he was watching. The label design of the 45rpm record, spinning round and round in front of his nose, featured a chess knight. Round and round it went.

Round and round.

He looked away and found Nelson was watching him. As his eyes met the barman's, Nelson gave him another wink. "Hey, mon. I don' mind if you get drunk, but you be careful. Soon, you no be able to walk in a straight line no more, yeah?"

"This here song, it ain't so sad! Cutest little song you ever had!" warbled Chuck Berry as the knight went round and round on the record label, and Sam Tyler's head went round and round as he tried to make sense of things.

"And those of you who will not sing, you must be playing with your own ding a ling!"

"Your ding a ling! Your ding a ling! We saw you playing with your ding a ling!" Gene Hunt pushed his way over toward the juke box, his face red. He did not have a good singing voice, but Ray Carling and Chris Skelton joined in anyway. A moment later, so did Annie Cartwright.

"Your ding a ling! Your ding a ling! Come on, Tyler!" bellowed Gene Hunt.

And Sam Tyler's face broke into a smile as he joined in the final line of the song. The record ended and the knight on the label stopped its endless circling as the machinery returned it to its box, its job completed.


End file.
